


wormburner

by ictsgn



Category: Panic! at the Disco
Genre: Alternate Universe - Baseball, M/M, Short & Sweet, it was a grave mistake, who let the emo like sports
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-18
Updated: 2020-03-18
Packaged: 2021-02-28 21:34:11
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,017
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23194051
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ictsgn/pseuds/ictsgn
Summary: ryan is a pro, brendon is a rookie, and baseballs hurt.
Relationships: Ryan Ross/Brendon Urie, Spencer Smith/Brendon Urie
Comments: 3
Kudos: 10





	wormburner

**Author's Note:**

> this is a very quick ryden baseball au i wrote for a historical fiction assignment a few years back & i thought i'd post it! i'm considering expanding it and making it a full-length story, but i wasn't sure if anyone would want that since baseball isn't very popular with most emos. alas, i am the odd one out. enjoy! <3

_ *** _

Brendon is  _ wasted. _

Not so much that he can’t pay attention to the television, though; there’s a Twins game on. The score is 2-3, Ross is pitching, and Brenon feels dizzy. The team’s gathered at Spencer’s house for a post-game party following the Gophers sweeping Virginia State for the College World Series win; the pitching lineup threw consistent balls just out of reach.

“Hey, Bren!” He thinks back to his 3rd-game barehand dive to a pop fly. “You’re gonna be the next Golden Glove winner, man!” 

The shortstop was pulled out of his daydream by the sound of Spencer shouting at the TV. Glancing over, he watched Ross on the mound trap himself into a full count.  _ Damn it _ , he thought.  _ We need this win _ . The Twins weren’t doing too well this game, but they weren’t exactly his first choice team. If he was honest with himself, Brendon’s big dream was always getting drafted to Cleveland. And by some miracle of God, he’d been signed for the ‘71 Indians season.

He’d gone there on a field trip what seemed like ages ago. In high school he’d taken a music class, and his teacher had thought it would be a good idea to visit the Rock N’ Roll Hall of Fame, but Brendon was more interested in the nearby Progressive Field. Spencer was in that class too, and they both snuck away from the group of students to hear the yells and chants from the stadium. They barely got to see  _ actual _ games, because the city was so far from Minnesota’s MLB team. 

And he didn’t know why, but he couldn’t stand Ryan Ross. A tall right-hander, Brendon was convinced the pitcher got himself into the worst of scenarios as often as he could. Every time he watched a Twins game, (when the Indians weren’t on air and he was bored out of his mind), Ross seemed to stress him out and relieve him all with one pitch. Brendon didn’t understand it. Hell, sometimes he wanted to cry just going up to bat. How could the guy do it?

He had to play  _ against _ him next year?

_ “ _ Man, the count’s 3-2! Think Ross’ll get us outta this jam?”

“Spence, he’s like, a God out there. I swear to  _ God _ —“

The reply is cut off by cheers filling up the living room. Ross threw a solid curveball at just outside the plate and caught the Diamondbacks batter in a strikeout. Cheers erupted in both the Marlins’ home stadium and Spencer’s living room, the dugout clearing within seconds, Ross being the star yet again. Brendon didn’t understand him. He was so perfect and  _ theatrical, _ almost...it was entrancing.

Brendon audibly sighed and looked over to Patrick Stump, the Gophers’ second baseman and renowned cleanup hitter. Tall and well-built, he’d secured the fourth batting position for years. Brendon himself was on the shorter end and wasn’t exactly a big guy, but he could  _ run _ . He was an incredible fielder; he could play shortstop in his sleep and probably other positions were he so inclined. He’d managed to snag himself second in the batting lineup. Patrick, on the other hand, was stacked. He’d had developed a pretty close friendship with Stump; they backed one another up all the time. He knew Patrick was going places; the kid could  _ hit _ .

Brendon stood but stumbled and latched onto Spencer. He groaned. Not only was he a lightweight, but he had zero pain tolerance. Everything hurt.

“Spence, why’d ya let me get so messed up? We have practice so early… ‘M gonna die right here.”

“On the bright side, there’s only three days until  _ THE _ Ryan Ross—”

Brendon punched Spencer’s arm playfully, but realized he needed said arm for support, and latched on again.

“Shu’up,” Brendon slurred. “Just because he’s the best pitcher in like, the entire AL East league means  _ nothin’ _ . He’s an asshole who just so happens to be good at throwin’ a ball.” 

“Hey!” piped in a pitcher from the dimly lit room. “I heard that Urie! Where would all those balls you oh-so-expertly field be if i wasn’t there to throw them?” 

“Spence, can I crash here? Your air mattress is still in the closet, right?”

As Brendon dragged the surprisingly heavy air mattress beside Spencer’s bed, he couldn’t help but think the Ryan Ross poster above his headboard was mocking him.

_ Number 28. _

_ *** _

“History was made today, March 23rd, 1971, with the passing of the 26th Amendment, which lowered the minimum voting age to 18. As a result of this—“

_ CLICK. _

A Cleveland Indians jersey buttoned up, a cap with an unflattering mascot on his head, and cleat patterns adorning the dirt in more circles than he could count—and Brendon was still freaking out. He was about to play his first Major League game.  _ Ever _ . The team had taken a huge chance on him; they had a few versatile players that could fill his position, but he was their only purebred shortstop. 

So he could legally vote in the next President of the United States, but he couldn’t swing a bat without seeing his life flash before his eyes. Great.

He was quick, and everyone knew it. That was why he was 3rd in the Indians’ lineup. Get on base, move the runners forward, and have the cleanup hitter bring everyone home. That was the plan. He recited plays mechanically, yet every time some strange unforeseen incident invaded his thoughts. He could miss a catch, try too risky a steal, mysteriously lose all control of his limbs and bunt for no reason. The  _ horror _ .

Soon it was hotel to locker room, locker room to dugout. Glove to hand and helmet to head. Cleats digging into the dirt, right arm winding up, two pairs of brown eyes boring into one another between 60 feet; the pitcher one he’d seen hundreds of times, whether in a live game or in the hours of tapes he watched on his 12-inch screen.

The lights were burning. If he wasn’t already in hell, he didn’t want to know what it was really like.

***

“Hey, Bren. Listen. I know it's been a few days, but I really miss you…Oh yeah, this is Spencer by the way. In case getting hit in the ribs by a 90 MPH pitch and then swinging your bat into your own head like, uh, made you...forget?”

Spencer sighed. Brendon had squeezed his hand once or twice and twitched his nose, but he had yet to open his eyes. The clunky hospital machines beeped incessantly, and he was about to go get some lunch to get away from it all. He was in the middle of making a “Get Brendon Charleston Chews For When He Wakes From His Beauty Sleep” mental note when he heard a faint noise.

“Hey, Spence...What’s going on?”

Spencer let out a nervous laugh. He knew Brendon would be fuming by the fact that his baseball arch enemy who barely knew he existed had floored him. On the other hand, his best friend had just broken at least 7 bones, so he was treading lightly. Though team tensions were high, there was no way to know if it had been purposeful or not. Personally he thought there should be a way to look at plays all over again, but that would probably require some weird alien technology.

He was right to be nervous. The minute the bedridden boy heard the news, machines began blaring. Blood pressure spiked in record time. Spencer was ushered out of the room. He’d seen enough.

After he settled down physically, Brendon was groggy and riled up all in one. He heard someone say they wanted to take him to a cat?  _ What _ ?

Spencer, who was in the room again, interjected.

“A CAT  _ scan _ , Bren. It’s this new type of body X-ray. You got absolutely torn up out there.”

Yet again, Spencer was right. Numerous broken ribs, bruises and bleeding on every inch of his chest. It would take the promising shortstop God knew how long to recover and play again. That is, if he  _ could _ play again.

But there was another elephant in the room---that of Brendon’s contract. He’d been on a trial run with the Indians; he wasn’t signed past that year. And it didn’t seem he would be, either.

Once he was conscious enough to realize this, Brendon really wanted to break the  _ other _ half of his ribs.

***

Afternoon light shone through Brendon’s living room curtains, which were flung open in one swift movement. He groaned and turned away from the sun, but it was too late: Spencer had yet again caught him in the act of moping on the couch at 2pm in nothing but his worn-out jeans.

“Listen. Bren. This isn’t working.”

“Oh  _ God _ ,” he cried, mocking his friend. “Are you...breaking-up-with-me?”

Spencer paid absolutely zero attention to this remark and continued.

“Not all of us have been living under a pile of depression and Charleston Chews. You are a healthy young adult. There’s a reason you’re back in Minnesota. You completed your physical therapy  _ weeks _ ago and you’re still acting like you did when we were thirteen and your dog chewed your Yo-Yo beyond recognition.”

A newspaper landed on Brendon’s chest with a  _ thud _ . He squinted, eyes still not having adjusted to the land of the living. The headline emblazoned in the front of the Sports Section was a bold one:

“ **RISING STAR KNOCKED DOWN BY ROSS’ ROGUE PITCH BACK IN TOWN.** ”

_ Great _ , he thought.  _ So now they know that I’m a loser  _ **_and_ ** _ that I’m back to living on my mom’s couch. Maybe those things are synonymous. _

Brendon had convinced himself that he didn’t care in the slightest what some Herald or Daily had to say about his recent Pepsi-fueled black and white movie binge. That was, until he skimmed by something about the Twins’ manager, Bill Rigley. His body tensed. More pro-Ross garbage. Had to be. Why else would they care about him?

Spencer knew exactly what it said and memorized it three times over to prepare for his big “Stop Being An Idiot” speech for Brendon. Bill Rigley, having never watched the college player hit a ball in the Major League, wanted him on the team. Whether it was publicity, or a rivalry-starter, or just a plain strange business move, Spencer didn’t care. He just hoped it would bring his friend to at least shower, and decided to let him read it for himself. 

And after a slightly awkward silence where he did just that, Michael jumped up and hugged Spencer so tight he thought  _ his _ ribs were about to break.

Phone calls were made, letters were sent, stats were recorded. Brendon and Spencer trained like they did in the old days, except this time with less Piña Coladas.

When transcripts of the press release were printed, every baseball fan in Minnesota knew that the ‘72 Twins season would be one to remember.

Almost a year after being flattened by Ryan Ross’ throw, Brendon was ready to get back in the batter's box. The only thing he needed were his jerseys. But he definitely wasn’t expecting Ross to be the one delivering them. They’d never actually spoken, and Michael had no idea where they stood. He knew pitching was unpredictable and given he was a total nobody before that one game, it wasn’t likely that the righty targeted him. But still, he braced himself. He still had a vendetta against the guy for working ridiculously well under pressure while he was stuck being an anxiety-ridden human disaster.

“Hey,” Ross began. “Welcome to the team. I, uh, kinda wanted something new this season. Figured I’d personally do the honors.”

He winked, motioning to the back of his jersey, and Brendon was utterly confused. Who was this guy to hit  _ him  _ and nearly put him out of commission forever and then be all cryptic about a goddamn  _ jersey _ ?

And then he understood. In the middle of his white, blue, and red jersey, under his last name, was his new number.

_ Number 28 _ .

***


End file.
